


Echo My Heart

by TeddyKrueger



Series: Echo My Heart [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Asexual Pidge | Katie Holt, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gay Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Hunay, I would die for Kinkade, I'm making my dreams come true, I've always thought of Pidge dating a girl, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mute Lance, Mute!Lance, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Pimelle, SUPER offscreen, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyKrueger/pseuds/TeddyKrueger
Summary: “You gonna answer me?” he growls. “What thefuckis your problem?”“Language,” Shiro warns.I only look up once from typing on my phone when the asshole scoffs. “So you’re gonna play with your phone are you ki—”I shove the words in his face. His eyes widen and I narrow my own as he re-reads my message over and over again. All eye contact is severed and he huffs, kidnaps the paper towels out of Shiro’s hand, and wipes at the damp spot on his sweater as he flees.“Whatever. Watch it next time.”It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to talk back, but it’s for the best I didn’t. I mean, I couldn’t.I delete the message, replaying the image of his scrunched-up face in my mind.I’m mute, asshole.(Indefinite hiatus.)





	Echo My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> This fic was originally published in 2018 over the course of about four months with an epilogue added in March of 2019. I didn’t complete the entire work before beginning updates, but rather I posted bi-weekly after finishing each chapter. As such, I wanted to re-upload a fully edited version as a way to say thank you to everyone who supported _Echo My Heart_ from the start, but also as a way to further develop the story I wanted to express.
> 
> For those of you who haven’t read this before: welcome and I hope the first-person narrative doesn’t scare you away. For those of you who have: welcome back and I hope you discover something even more from this than you did during the first read. This version includes content that I couldn’t develop properly when there was a deadline poking my shoulder every other Friday night.
> 
> Speaking of development, I would’ve been as dead as Lance on a Monday morning without the assistance of my spectacular and ever-dependent editor, SnailsInATrenchCoat. She pointed out concepts that didn’t quite make sense and scrutinized for egregious spelling and grammar errors, but she also kept me from losing the essence of the original _EMH_ characters. She eliminated my self-doubt and was—and continues to be—a major part of why this rewrite came to fruition. I could _never_ build a high enough pedestal for all of you to see her on, but I guess this piece of the Internet will have to do. 
> 
> Until this rewrite is completed, I will _not_ be deleting the original work ([which you can find here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644142/chapters/36332820)). I now think of it as a first or second draft rather than a final copy, and I deem this new version the truest version of the tale of these stupid boys and their all-too-patient friends.
> 
> Thank you for every tick you spent or will spend reading this work. I’ll wrap up this long and convoluted introduction with some last words:
> 
> I cannot hear your voices and chances are I never will, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel every roar in my heart, my Mute Lions.
> 
> -TeddyKrueger

** _Monday_ **

Before this year, the worst class slot possible was 9:30 AM. It’s been said that getting up that early requires ear-piercing music as an alarm, dunking one’s head into a bucket of ice water, and a friend kind enough—or paid enough—to drag one’s unresponsive body to campus.

If only I were so lucky.

I can’t even push open the doors to Iverson Hall without my entire body threatening to shut down. This is all because the Garrison, as we like to call it, maintains an insane administration which voted to change the first classes of the day to literal dawn. If my sorry ass didn’t still have to take some gen eds and lower-level courses for my major, this crime against youth couldn’t touch me. Alas, luck is never on my side.

Only part of me is satisfied with the glazed-over eyes of everyone in my Intro to Physics II class. Most are scattered in the back two rows, yawning over cups of coffee and leaning back in chairs, eyes closed, struggling to shove in a sliver more of sleep before academia rips it away. I pass them by, stifling a yawn myself, and slide into the front row. A year ago I might’ve been in the back too, but I almost bombed a class my freshman year which I will forever blame on the girl who, without fail, shoe-shopped the entire hour and a half session. I’m sure she would’ve looked great in those stilettos, but honestly, I’m trying to get an education here.

A couple of faces look vaguely familiar, possibly because some of them might’ve been in the pre-req class last semester, but there’s no one I could confidently name. Hunk, the best buddy a guy didn’t even have to ask for, managed to snag a spot in a less debilitating time slot for the same course. It’s great that we can study together, but it would be a smidgen more tolerable if I had him to commiserate with.

Muted chatter swells into intelligible conversation about holiday get-togethers and ski trips as the bulk of the students trickle through both doors. Amongst the river of students, someone crosses in front of the elongated table making up my row. He side-shuffles through the gap, pushing chairs in as he goes, and settles himself a couple seats down from me.

I wouldn’t say there’s anything wrong with this picture, but the painter might as well have shoved a logo on his sweater reading, “I’m the main focus of this art piece!” His hair is devoid of bedhead and his clothes are freshly ironed. He should be at least minorly ruffled considering it’s 33 degrees outside and it’s raining ice, but no. The only mark-up on his flawless appearance is his dark circles, which I can guarantee are too severe for one sleep-deprived night.

He side-eyes me and it’s then that my mamá’s voice floats into my head. _“Mijo, if you burn holes into people with those eyes it’s only a matter of time before their fire burns you back.”_ I’d like to stay as un-crispy as possible, thanks. To be fair though, when a dude strides into an 8 AM class looking like he wakes up sans alarm, it’s a wonder I’m the only one staring.

I pull out my phone just as my _“Intro to Physics II - 8:00 in 1 Minute”_ notification flashes on my lock screen—as if I need another reminder of my suffering. 

Motion from the front draws my attention to a man with tangerine-colored hair dumping a pile of papers onto the table adjacent to the professor’s podium. A few pages slip to the floor and he makes no effort to put them back in order when he snatches them up again.

“Good morning, class!” he declares, sifting through the chaos. He gives a small “Aha!” and licks his thumb before dividing up stacks of syllabi and handing them to the first person at the end of each row.

“Hmm. It seems this is a rather small class, so come closer together. I won’t bite and I doubt your classmates will either.” He beckons the back of the class forward and the rest of us shift toward the center to make room for our new guests.

Morning Glory claims his new spot as my seat neighbor and I’m not sure I can complain. If I’m gonna be in 8 AM hell, at least I get to sit next to the guy who could be straight out of a J-Rock band. I guess this does counteract my whole “don’t get distracted” plan, though. Oh well. I tried.

I snag my syllabus from the pile and pass the rest down, trying not to make direct eye contact to avoid any more glares due to brief accidental staring contests. The professor’s name is bolded at the top of the page: Dr. Coran H.W. Smythe (“You may all call me Coran, of course!”). It’s the kind of name belonging to the heir of a centuries-old European family. From his accent, though, he sounds more like a posh Australian or...New Zealander? I can only tell the difference if I can get them to say words rhyming with six.

“Today we’re just going to go over the syllabus and you’ll be let go early. No reason to teach material on the first day. You’re free to stay and,” he wiggles his shoulders, “mingle if you so choose.”

He runs through the academic policies as if we haven’t heard them a thousand times in a thousand variations. You know, considering how much they harp on about plagiarism, could a professor get in trouble for syllabus plagiarism? I feel like they should. I vaguely catch him reference the attendance policy about maximum absences (“I trust you’ll all understand what is meant by the phrase, ‘Three strikes and you’re down a letter grade’.”) before the thuds of backpacks on tables signal our escape. Oh god, I need caffeine or I might die.

The walk off-campus is worth my reddening face and the gentle nip of January air. A number of my brothers and sisters in arms head for the campus Starbucks, but I prefer _my_ place.

Warmth floods outwards as I pull open the door to Altea, the aroma of dark roast and chai tea following suit. A buzz better than any caffeine high begins the second I step through. I’m no stranger to spending ten minutes scrolling through Instagram while other customers rattle off their orders, but there’s no need to even reach for my phone this early. Here-in lies the one, and only, perk of getting up at this god awful time.

There are two people behind the counter, the one that I know refills the espresso machine, her silver curls just peeking out from the side, and the one I don’t hauls a stained coffee urn to the back room. I almost lose hope for a perfect morning, but the angel of a devil pops out in place of the coffee-urn boy as if he heard my prayers.

I give him a wave and he chuckles in response, one that’s as warm as the workplace he built. His metal nametag proudly announces that his name is Shiro and next to it is an engraving of the roaring white lion logo. “I know it’s been a while, but I’m assuming the usual?” he asks, as if we don’t do this same song and dance every semester.

My smile is the only answer he needs and he sends it down the line. I go to ask him how business was over break, but presumably coffee-urn boy calls him to the back. Shiro smiles apologetically and gets back to work. There’s always something or other to call him away no matter what time of day it is. All that military training must give him stamina for days.

An itch begins to rage beneath the wristband on my left arm. No doubt his words are pissed that I haven’t checked them since yesterday. They’re like a separate entity with a need to breathe, albeit once a day and immediately after I wake up.

I unsnap the buttons of the dark leather band that encases my wrist and open it just enough to peek at what’s tattooed there today.

_They better not make us do those stupid self-introductions this week._

I grin at the red scrawl and re-do the snaps. Those are sentiments I can get behind. I always regret the fun fact I choose despite the boring fact that I’m pretty sure no one is listening to anyone else because they’re too wrapped up in waiting for their own turn. Not one professor agrees on the standard order for how we’re supposed to do them. Is it name, hometown, major, year, fact or name, year, major, hometown, fact? I’m positive the first week of classes is meant to experiment with stress on our heart rates.

“Lance?” the familiar barista, Allura, calls, placing my drink on the counter. I shoot her finger guns for posterity’s sake and she rolls her eyes. “You know you don’t have to do that every time you see me, right?”

My killer smirk surfaces. She waves me off to wash out the steaming pitcher and I comply with her voiceless command. The mocha lasts longer on my tongue today and the sweetness seeps into my system. Leave it to Allura to guess my predicament before my brain has the processing power to explain it myself. Shiro and Allura need to have “Dream Team pt. 1” and “Dream Team pt. 2” engraved somewhere on their nametags.

If I can get through the next class, I have all day to laze around at home and recoup. Once my sleep schedule catches up I’m sure things will get better. Things always get better.

  


* * *

  


Hands down Coran is my favorite professor so far. That may sound like an exaggeration considering I only have two classes on Mondays and Thursdays, but trust me when I say this Zarkon dude is a piece of work.

“Nobody passes this class with an A. If you somehow manage to do so, I’d be worried about a full-scale investigation into your plagiarized work,” he growls. “If you’re late to class you’re locked out. End of story. I don’t have time for children who don’t take their education seriously.”

I swallow down the yawn threatening its way up. Apparently, the normal human reaction to tiredness and lack of sleep is not allowed in the classroom because it’s “disrespectful”. Sure, buddy. That’s a legit reason to ban it. That makes all the sense. All of it.

_I’m_ complaining, but I’m nothing next to Hunk whose eyes are drooping. I’ve had to poke him in the side five separate times to keep him from passing out. I shared a room with him for a year and let’s just say earplugs do _not_ work.

Zarkon's eyes zero in on me and he grimaces. Oh god. Can he sense the presence of yawns that haven’t even happened? I don’t make much noise in general and my laptop is shut so it can’t be either of those. Did he notice me poking Hunk? Which one is worse: not keeping my hands to myself or Hunk sleeping?

He jabs a finger in my direction. “No electronic devices. Period.”

I may or may not need to drop this class.

Our release into the cold is a welcome respite from Satan himself. Hunk ambles along in the way someone would if they were taking a walk through a meadow doused in sunlight while they’re high. I force my legs to quit with their natural pacing to keep him company on his broken stroll.

“Was it just me, or did that guy have dictator written all over?” he grumbles.

I snort and nod in agreement.

Shiro isn’t manning the register, but I can spot his tuft of white hair bouncing along back-and-forth between the back room and elsewhere around the shop. He stops once or twice while on the floor, probably restocking sugars and other add-ins for those who actually like to enjoy their coffee.

Hunk’s name is called from behind the bar and he squeezes through the students thumbing at their phones, and returns victorious with drink in hand. We don’t call them frappuccinos in here for fear of Allura bristling and giving us a three-hour lecture on why Starbucks is a stain on the coffee industry. It doesn’t matter what it’s called because the fact remains that Hunk’s drink is a caramel-flavored mess.

“Oh come on, man, don’t give me that look. This is delicious year-round.”

I shrug and smile around my lid. Mine came out long before his did because, while my face routine takes at least an hour every night, I like my coffee with a max of three ingredients and free of Mt. Everest-like proportions of whipped cream.

“I’m gonna get a sleeve for this,” Hunk says. “Need anything?”

I shake my head and he ventures off into the jungle. A girl jabs her elbow into my stomach in her effort to pass through what everyone decided was the path to the door. I squeeze up against one of the pillars, my backpack rustling against it every time a new person pushes through. I need to leave the bar area, but I can’t bring myself to abandon Hunk. Who knows if he’ll be able to find me again.

Okay, you know what if this guy pushes back into me any more than he has already I swear I’m gonna blow on his ear. College students and personal space are—

One moment my cup is in my hand. In the next moment, it’s dripping off of two people and creating a chocolate puddle.

Heh. Chocolate rain.

We both hiss, me mainly out of reflex because there’s no pain. My abuela got me a new waterproof coat for Christmas because, “It gets cold up there _mijo_ and skinny boys like you freeze to death so easily,” so there’s only a smattering of coffee at the hems of my jeans. Still gonna be a bitch when I get outside, but it’s better than the alternative.

I whip my head upwards and throw my arms up as best I can in the limited space I have to work with because what the fuck? There was no room. Anyone else could _see_ there was no room. I was pinned up against a pillar and yet somehow he decided it was prime time to walk through my space.

Wait. Shit. The other half of my drink isn’t all over the floor, but on him. I have to apologize. I open my mouth, but—

“What is your problem?” he asks a little too loudly and pushes closer into my space. With my luck, it _would_ be someone from one of my classes. It _would_ be my seat neighbor. It _would_ be Mr. I Woke Up Like Dis.

A flash of movement over by the drink bar and the crowd parts to let Shiro pad over with a mop and enough paper towels to wipe down the entirety of Altea’s floors if need-be. His eyes scan the area, first to the floor and then upwards. His face relaxes and he lets out a small sigh when I gesture to my coat and lack of burns. When his eyes fall on the other guy, though, it’s something I’ve never seen before.

“Oh kiddo. It didn’t burn you, did it?” Shiro asks.

So-called _kiddo_ has his winter coat in one arm clutched tight to his chest. Meanwhile, the maroon sweater he’s swearing sports a large brown patch that’s growing by the second.

I tap on Shiro’s shoulder and raise an eyebrow in question. Why would the wonderful, beautiful, kind Shiro know a prick like this? I bet he’s one of those regulars that makes the less seasoned baristas sprint to the back. They’d peek out of the little glass window of the door and watch as the cashier has to smile their way through glares and terse conversation.

“I’m gonna have to go home and change because _someone_ doesn’t know how to move,” he snarls.

Shiro puts up a hand, slowly as if coaxing a rabid dog from snapping its jaws, but the guy doesn’t back down. He glares daggers and I’m just as happy to throw them back in his direction.

“Uh, Lance? What’s going on?” Hunk asks. If I didn’t know my own name I would swear he was asking the mullet-head with my beloved drink all over him. He looks around at all the students whipping their phones out. I am _not_ awake enough today to look good in a WorldStar video. Wait, do people even use that anymore? Whatever. Anyways, the only noise is the slurping of a straw in a cup gone empty. 

The guy takes another step. Hunk would be great back-up considering he looks like he could eat someone even though in actuality he’s more likely to bake them cookies, but no. I’ve got this. I deal with stupid people all the time. What’s another one?

“You gonna answer me?” he growls. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

“Language,” Shiro warns.

I only look up once from typing on my phone when the asshole scoffs. “So you’re gonna play with your phone are you ki—”

I shove the words in his face. His eyes widen and I narrow my own as he re-reads my message over and over again. All eye contact is severed and he huffs, kidnaps the paper towels out of Shiro’s hand, and wipes at the damp spot on his sweater as he flees. 

“Whatever. Watch it next time.”

It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to talk back, but it’s for the best I didn’t. I mean, I couldn’t.

I delete the message, replaying the image of his scrunched-up face in my mind.

_I’m mute, asshole._

The crowd disperses, mumbling variations of, “They were _this_ close,” and, “I wonder what the quiet kid has on him to make him run like that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shiro says as he mops up the puddle. “Keith’s not usually like that.”

Oh so it has a name. _“I honestly doubt he’s a ray of sunshine anytime else,”_ I sign back.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose right where his scar traces its wide line, spanning from cheek to cheek. “Just, I’ll talk to him. He’s kinda my kid brother so sometimes he listens to me once he calms down.”

_“How is it possible that he comes from the same family as you?!”_

“I’ll talk to him. It’ll be fine.” He gives a two-finger salute to Hunk and I and retreats behind the counter, away from Altea’s own Cuban Missile Crisis. Allura makes me another drink before Hunk and I make our way back to campus, but instead of chocolate and espresso, it tastes like the bitterness of dealing with fuckboy mcgee.

_“So what happened there?”_ Hunk signs.

_“Douchebag smacked into me, didn’t say sorry, and then got in my face.”_

Hunk barks out laughter and I shoot him a glare. _“For what it’s worth, the look on his face when you told him you can’t talk was priceless.”_

Priceless it was. I can confidently say I came out on top of that situation. The only thing he came out on top of is my shitlist.

Hunk deems that the end of the conversation and transfers into holiday break talk. Hunk’s cousins and I send each other memes from time to time and I’m privy to more than a few of his darkest secrets, _including_ the time he accidentally walked a girl home because he meant to give her a love letter and procrastinated too long. Even so, there are always more stories to tell of new family members, his little brother’s birthday party, and everything else from under that beaming California sun. I let him talk, a nod here or a question there, because I’ll have time to talk about my siblings and my horror stories later. His stories lull me to a place where everything is filled with laughter and playful banter instead of...here.

“So how’s that 8 AM?” he slips in during my momentary lapse from the conversation. I lose the imagined scents of _faiai eleni_ and _kopai_ and sip on my mocha.

_“Torture. Commander Klutz sits right next to me.”_

“Tough break.” He frowns, but his tone turns hopeful again. “It might not be that bad. Who knows? Maybe he’ll apologize.”

I crinkle my nose. _“1) No way he will and 2) I’m not accepting it.”_

He switches to undercover shit-talking mode. _“It’ll be fine, dude. Worry about it on Thursday.”_

If Hunk had a theme song, it would either be _Que Sera Sera_ or _Hakuna Matata_. I’m more of a _Sorry_ kind of man. Beyoncé in her entirety is a mood.

“Oh shoot.” Hunk halts and smacks himself in the forehead.”I have to meet up with Pidge. I promised I’d show them the club room.”

Pidge is our new roommate. Usually, freshmen stick to the dorms, but Pidge and their roomie had a blow-up fight that ended in them filing papers to get out of the campus housing system entirely. Apparently their habit of tapping away at their laptop until four in the morning wasn’t beneficial to their roommate’s sleep schedule. Lucky for them Hunk sleeps like the dead and I’ve got a separate room.

I got this information secondhand, though. I gain bits and pieces from what Hunk manages to learn in his brief conversations with them, but that’s it. Actually, I don’t think I’ve said more than ten words to them since they moved in. I think four of those included mouthing, “Nice to meet you.” Not much I can do when they’re not making steps to talk either. I guess not everyone clicks the minute they meet like Hunk and I did.

_“I’ll just veg out on the couch until you get home, then.”_

He taps my shoulder just before I can hit the button for the crosswalk. _“You gonna be okay?”_ he signs.

I steel my expression. _“I’m already planning my revenge.”_

“I’ll take that as a no then.”

** _Thursday_ **

The girl behind me bumps into my back when I stop right in the doorway to physics. She shoves past me with a mumbled, “Dick,” and collapses in a seat furthest away from where I’m looking. “Not attractive at all he’s an entitled dipshit” guy has taken his place in the exact seat as last time, AKA right next to mine.

I stare him down as I make my approach. I signal my arrival by dropping my bag on the table with a dull thump before making my way around to the side where the chairs are. He flinches almost imperceptibly, but my vision has always been 20/20. A grin peeks its way onto my face, but I push back the urge. Gotta stay stoic. Anything else could be perceived as weakness and that’s not something I can afford right now. I’m on a mission, dammit.

I plop into my seat and jostle him in the process. _“Oops,”_ I mouth.

His shoulders tense up and he whips his head in my direction. “Are you kidding me? Seriously?”

I shrug and type up a response on my phone at as normal a speed as possible. _“Interesting that you’re surprised considering I took some pointers from you.”_

He narrows his eyes and aims an argument, but I raise a palm and hold it a few centimeters from his face. My focus is better placed on the whiteboard even though Coran isn’t here yet. I’ve had my life threatened when I do this, but only once was I beaten up for it. My sisters make a brutal tag-team. My brothers never made a move. I’m sure this hoe will find a happy medium.

When he taps my shoulder and I don’t turn, he huffs.

“Jesus Christ. What are you, five?”

I raise three fingers.

“It’s not like I meant to knock into you,” he groans. “Also, _you’re_ the one that got coffee on _me_ so we might as well be even.”

Nope. Even is not a thing we are or ever will be. Not happening. I click my tongue before realizing I just lost at my own game. Best two out of three.

He starts to pack away his notebook and pen, hopefully going to find another seat far the fuck away from me. “You can’t even talk and yet you’re _still_ annoying.”

Coran enters the room before bitch boy gets a chance to leave and before I get a chance to direct a slew of curses in his direction. The second Coran wrestles his papers onto the table, he claps his hands together and gives a beaming smile that’s lost on a half-conscious class. “Well, I hope you like your seatmates because they will be your partner for the rest of the semester!” I’m sure the other students are looking at each other, but who cares because _what is coming out of his mouth right now?!_

“You’ll be assigned pairs for homework assignments and for the paper you’re to write for this course.” I’m sorry _what_? “For those of you whose seatmates are currently absent, though I hope they are just late, you won’t have to worry about them in the least. They will be assigned with another student who is also currently absent or late.”

Coran strolls down the length of the table and assigns partners. Part of me is convinced I’ll luck out and get partnered up with the other guy next to me, but the other part of me accepts the inevitable even before Coran voices it aloud: not only do I have to deal with dipwad being in my class, but I also have to rely on him for the majority of my grade.

Taking advantage of my shock and absent awe, asshat leans over and mutters, “You wanna stop being a three-year-old now?”

I sign at him. I don’t care if he doesn’t get it.

_“Not a chance.”_

“Now,” Coran starts, “at the beginning of each class you’ll turn in a worksheet containing material we covered in the most recent session. This will include five multiple-choice questions and five worded equations.” When did I get this low in my seat? “I know it seems like busywork, but considering much of physics is applicable as well as mathematical, it would do you well to assess your abilities each class.” He smiles. “Pay attention to lecture and you should be perfectly fine.”

No matter how much I will them to, my fingers won’t move across the keys of my laptop as fast as I need them to. Coran’s explanations of charges and Coulomb’s Law fly straight out of the classroom door while I grasp at even the slightest disturbance they make in the air.

It’s bad enough that this is nowhere near my best subject, but it’s even worse that this asshole is sitting next to me with two—count ‘em: TWO—notes jotted down on the first page of his pristine notebook. My partner is the biggest douchecanoe in the world _and_ he doesn’t even pay attention in class. Coran may blow other professors out of the water in personality and teaching ability, but this may officially be the worst class of all time.

I’m not running away. I’m just trying to recoup to figure out how I’m gonna maneuver this insane divine punishment. I can’t gather my things fast enough before fuckwit speaks.

“Look, I know you hate me or whatever, but apparently we need to work on this together.”

_“Hate doesn’t even begin to describe it and fine.”_ I take my phone back before he finishes reading and add on to it, _“But considering you don’t even take notes I’ll probably end up doing all of it.”_

He tilts his head. “I don’t need to take that many notes,” he explains. “Listening to the lecture works for me.”

That’s total bullshit. I don’t care if he looks void of all wrongdoing for once in his life. _“Good for you.”_ I try to leave again, but this time he claps a hand on my shoulder to stop me. Again.

“As much as it pains me to say this, I need your number.”

Being put at the mercy of potentially catastrophically irritating texts from who I’ve now decided is the most irritating human being in the world does not fill me with joy. The only consolation in this is that, as long as I’m preemptive, I can destroy him before he attempts to destroy me.

He gingerly places his phone in my hand as if I were waiting for a chance to shatter it on the ground. I’m not _that_ much of a dick. Well, that and this place has carpet and not linoleum or wood or something. The carpet is thin, but not thin enough to break a phone screen in one shot.

My phone _pings_ and turns into the sound effect for my exit from the room, from his bullshit, and from the session that has sealed my woeful fate.

  


* * *

  


The stain of my spilled coffee is long gone, but its presence remains like seagulls mocking me from afar as I go through my shitty day...literally. Allura mans the register just as she always does: with the grace of someone too good for food service. It hasn’t changed since the first time I met her which is a wonder considering what college students at a private university probably put her through on the daily. People always tell me I don’t have a chance—especially with Shiro looking like a picture-perfect soldier boy—but the moment I saw the way they work in tandem without saying a single word, I didn’t have to be told twice. My usual wink is greeted by her usual eye roll and I don’t expect anything more. It stung at first, but hey, I like our routine nowadays.

“Hopefully you don’t spill it on one of our customers this time,” she singsongs as she writes my order onto my cup.

_“He ran into me!”_ I tap furiously into my phone. _“I’m pretty sure that counts as splattering it on his own damn self.”_

“Okay, okay. Don’t shoot.” She laughs and holds her hands up in defense. “I’m not condoning his behavior. Your reaction was more than justified.”

_“Is he always like that?”_

The other barista tells Allura she’s heading to the back and Allura watches her go before replying to me. “He’s the prickly sort, but he doesn’t usually flare up like that. He probably couldn’t roll up his—” She purses her lips. “Regardless, he must have been in a particularly foul mood.”

Yeah. I couldn’t tell.

“You can complain about him later,” she says. “Now shoo so I can get everyone’s orders together, you sourpuss.”

At least Allura understands that he _can_ be a dick. As far as Shiro is concerned, his bites are only the playful nips of a kitten and not the unrelenting clamp from the jaws of a lion.

My saving grace is being one of the only people here. The area by the counter is clear of drinks and watermarks and the students don’t crowd around it to strain their ears for their name. As much as I enjoy a quiet murmur, I also don’t mind the substitution of the intermittent whir of the blender and the pour of fresh espresso. There’s the occasional joke thrown from one barista to another, but otherwise, the stereotype of the college coffee shop doesn’t exist here.

It probably seems like a waste of time to go off campus for coffee that is not only further away, but also more expensive. The first time I walked in I was about two seconds from walking out and never coming back. Unfortunately, it was a pretty shitty midterms week and I was prepared to collapse and never wake up. I typed my order into my phone before getting to the counter so as not to awaken the beasts inside the other dead students. The cashier looked at my phone for a second, smiled, and signed, _“Would you like whipped cream with that?”_ I’m surprised I didn’t fall in love with Shiro after that.

Too many times I’ve gotten The Look. They don’t want to look at my phone. They want to hear me say it. They want to send someone else to deal with me ‘cause they can’t be bothered to read. The sting disappeared when I was that ever-silent, seven-year-old crybaby, but dull irritation is still irritation.

My fingers bump into my wristband as I absentmindedly try to scratch underneath. Oh man, again? I swear if I’m gonna forget about my mark every Monday and Thursday morning I might as well leave my wristband off.

_Please tell me that noise wasn’t what I thought it was._

I cover my smile with my hand. He _would_ be afraid of the dark.

The earliest I remember hearing about soulmates was when I was five-years-old and my papá regaled us with tales of his own childhood. He told us about the silly girl with the habit of painting abstract representations of her soulmate’s words in a sketchbook every day. He told us about the stupid boy that fought with her older brother and how some of the less-than-savory words he shouted showed up on her wrist the next day.

I’ve always found it sweet that, the day after they’re said, my parents get spoken words instead of inner thoughts on their wrists. My papá’s favorite motto is, “My mind is too full to keep thoughts to myself.” He’s gotten the silent treatment from my mamá more than a few times for his philosophy, but her secret smiles when he compliments her out of the blue is enough to convince me it doesn’t frustrate her as much as she says.

When I was 10, my mamá caved and took me to the mall to _finally_ get my wristband. My siblings got tired an hour in and ran off to entertain themselves in some other way, but she didn’t say a word the whole time and let me lead her. 

My breath hitched when I saw it. It was the one. The leather was dark, almost black. A deep indentation on the front-facing side was painted as if inlaid with turquoise interlaced with gold. Leather straps were braided and surrounded the indentation’s edges, further defining the circular faux stone. I wouldn’t have described it like that back then; I just thought it was cool.

My parents couldn’t convince me to take it off until bedtime. It was a few months before they could even get me to take it off when I took showers. My arm still aches at the memory of holding my left wrist outside of the shower curtain every night. 

13 is probably the point when sleep becomes the most important fixture of a young boy’s life, but sometimes Skyrim takes precedence—not that my mamá had any idea that my brothers let me borrow it. 

I didn’t get to see the mark first. I got to school and one of my tinier friends squeaked at the red glow on my wrist. He dashed forward and yanked my arm towards himself before I had the chance to protest. 

_Holy shit I am never putting a razor anywhere near my balls._

My soulmate had just discovered the dangers of pubic hair taming while I had discovered that some people couldn’t accept that he wasn’t a she. My parents let me sleep with my wristband on after that.

At first, I would get messages like, _Just give the blanket back_ or _Let me in_. Considering the words that show up are supposed to be emotionally charged, my adolescent self spent hours examining the words as if, if I looked hard enough, the words would magically change and explain to me what the hell was going on. _Maybe he’s just fighting with his siblings,_ I thought. _I’m sure he’s gotten the same thing from me whenever Marco locks me out of the house._

Thirteen turned to fourteen and nights spent wondering turned to nights spent waiting for my words to change so that maybe I could see one good day.

_I didn’t mean to break his nose. _

_I was just trying to make him stop. _

_I’m not sure if this is better or worse than the last place. _

_I don’t understand why you had to take the fucking door off._

_Say that about my dad one more time!_

I wrote letters to him daily even though there was no physical location to send them to. I kept them stacked neatly in a plastic bin under my bed.I thought that if they stayed pristine that I could share them with him when we finally met. I also mouthed soundless stories like what I ate for lunch or how much I wanted to punch this one guy in my history class. Not once did he have a thought about me, so I guess I wasn’t pushing hard enough.

Fourteen turned to fifteen and I was able to sleep through the night again—minus whenever I had to write a last-minute essay for English, but that’s besides the point. My mark became a gradual wake-up call that never failed to get me smiling before anyone else had spoken a single word to me.

_He’s my family and I couldn’t have asked for anyone better._

_Holy crap I actually got an A? How?_

_Oh shit, he’s cute._

_I think that’s the first time since Dad that someone told me they love me._

_I promise I’m gonna make you proud, Dad._

I graze my thumb across the present words, mentally focusing all of my soothing techniques on that point of contact. I saw a movie once where the main characters could project their emotions to each other just by touching their marks. The little kid in me won’t let go and face up to the fact that it’s unlikely he feels anything besides the usual itch when he needs to check his mark.

Shiro holds the midsection and bottom of my cup firmly and gingerly as he places it directly into my hands. He hesitates, but ultimately lets go. _“Did things go okay with Keith today?”_ he signs.

My face tenses and I take a grim sip of mocha. His smile is sympathetic and without another word, he returns to working in the calm of the shop while I prepare for the chill that refuses to break.

  


* * *

  


I haven’t seen the “go down the roster and pick names” trick in three years and yet here we are in Zarkon’s reign of terror over our dwindling class. He ignores anyone who volunteers in favor of the kid passing out in the third row or the girl furiously scribbling into her notebook after every statement that slips through his jaws.

Oh yeah, and then there’s me.

My signing might be visually sloppy, but my penmanship is top tier if I do say so myself. Even my scribbled script to dissuade Zarkon from jumping down my dysfunctional throat for inadequate speed could soothe even the most illiterate. My ESL teachers told me—

“What are you doing with that?” he asks in a low growl.

Hunk jumps in, eyes never settling long between either of us. “Sir, he’s—”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

People here are just like the ones in the coffee shop: when conflict arises that they aren’t involved in, they watch the show from behind a temporary shield. Today it’s the one that I’ve created for them so they better be grateful. Before another question can rise from the back of his throat I throw my whiteboard up high, forcing back a smirk.

_“I’m mute, but the answer is The Little War in 1879.”_

For the next three blissful minutes, he’s content with that answer. Other students get assaulted in my place, the newest attractions.

Then he calls on me again.

And again.

And again.

_And again._

I’ve never had anyone in my life try to force me to talk as much as Zarkon wants me to. My professors typically get sick of trying to read the words on my whiteboard and leave me be for the semester. Can’t say that doesn’t have its own kind of annoying, but at least I wasn’t being harassed. Hunk is trying to console me, but pitying looks don’t help. The only thing I can do is put as many miles of distance I can between me and Zarkon.

A buzzing goes off in my pocket and when I check the notification on my phone, my motivation to live drops to an absolute zero. What a glorious morning.

**Mullet-Head: when do you wanna meet**

**Me: I don’t, but I’m pretty sure it’s a requirement so…**

**Mullet-Head: just tell me when**

**Me: I have class in the morning so it’s gotta be after that. Just meet at our special spot.**

**Mullet-Head: do you even know how to let shit go**

**Me: Nope. Not trying to learn.**

**Mullet-Head: good to know**  
**Mullet-Head: see you at 3**

**Me: Why do you just assume I can show up whenever?**

**Mullet-Head: fucking a**  
**Mullet-Head: you pick a time then**

**Me: 3 works.**  
**Me: I’ll attempt to show up.**

**Mullet-Head: great**

**Me: Super.**

I look up to Hunk quirking his mouth. _“What was that about? You look pissed,”_ he signs.

_“Bitchass mofo.”_ I rub my hand down my face, only vaguely aware that this is going to cause some semblance of acne in the next few days. _“We’re partnered up for my 8 AM which means we have to meet up for assignments the ENTIRE semester.”_

He frowns. _“You think you can handle this?”_

_“Handle shithead? Easy.”_

_“I mean not acting like a toddler.”_

_“I resent that.”_

He shrugs and goes back to speaking. “Just don’t declare war on him right now. You need him to at least tolerate you if you don’t wanna end up working alone.”

I nod, but not entirely in agreement.

** _Friday_ **

I get to Altea ten minutes late hoping to god he’s had to wait. I peer into the window and there he is, open textbook off to the side and his hand scribbling away at the green paper with our assignment on it. I squint at the coffee cup on the table and even though he takes a long drink from it, something tells me there’s always the risk of retaliation.

Once inside, I saunter over to the table and stand behind the chair opposite him, resting my hands atop it, and stare. He doesn’t look up. I drag the chair backwards, letting it screech across the wooden flooring, no doubt garnering a few looks in response.

“You’re welcome to sit down,” he says sarcastically.

The part of his assignment that isn’t blocked by his head is halfway completed which is freaking ludicrous. I start writing a message into the notes app on my phone, but then I copy and paste it into a text instead. At least now I won’t have to delete everything whenever I want to say something. His number turned out to be good for something.

**Me: You look pretty confident in those answers considering you don’t write notes in class.**

He opens the message and sighs. “You can either complain about the way I do things or you can start working.”

Let’s get something straight here: I’m working on this because _I_ want to and not because he said to. He just happened to tell me to do it right before I started doing it. Anyone who says otherwise is slanderous.

We don’t talk while we work—him because he probably has to focus his two brain cells on the assignment and me because I can’t hit him with my wit whip out loud. I keep trying to do it by text, but after the third one, he set his phone to silent. Let me rectify my earlier statement: he’s focusing his _singular_ brain cell.

Never mind that right now. Okay, so how does Coulomb’s force work again? I scroll through the notes on my laptop. So the stationary particles...amount of force...okay that mostly makes sense. God why does the equation look so stupid hard? Stop. It’ll be fine. Step by step here. So Coulomb’s constant is—

“Done,” Captain Dickweed announces, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m getting a refill. Want anything?”

What in the actual fuck?

**Me: We’re checking your work because no way in hell did you get any of that right.**

“I guess that’s a no then.”

Gotta work faster. Alright just rewrite the equation for electrostatic force. F = K[q1 x q2]/D^2. Wait, which number substitutes for which variable? Ugh. Maybe I need to grab something before I drive myself insane.

Before I can stand up, the Prodigal Son returns, two cups in hand. I like my caffeine as much as anybody else, but three cups this late is insane. No wonder he looks like he doesn’t sleep.

He places one down closest to his side of the table, but then places the other next to my laptop. Is it going to bite me? I feel like he could probably train coffee cups to bite me. Otherwise he’s about to knock it over onto my keyboard and honestly, I don’t know if I can go to jail today.

“It’s still your fault that you spilled coffee on me, but I’m not trying to be a complete dick so just drink it,” he says.

I eye it, reaching out cautiously, still waiting to see if he’s about to snatch it and pour it over my head. I twist the cup around to find the words, in Shiro’s messy scrawl, “mocha latte no whip”.

**Me: Why is Shiro telling you my order?**

He spins his phone around in his hand. “It’s not hard to figure out once someone gets it all over your favorite sweater.”

Is he...trying to be nice? Not normal. Definitely not normal. Guard up, Lance. Do _not_ let this miscreant into your defenses.

**Me: What are you drinking? Black coffee?  
**   
**Me: Something tells me you’re *that* guy.**

I’ve removed several forgotten Altea receipts from jackets for double red eyes over the last year and a half, but that’s besides the point.

He takes a sip and winces a little. “It’s a dirty chai. What’s the point if it tastes like poison?”

He’s...nope. No matter what he says it’s not relatable or true or _anything_ of the sort. Everything about him is wrong and it will remain wrong until the end of time. I’m allowed to agree with the sentiment, but I don’t agree with him.

**Me: Whatever. Let me correct your answers.**

“If there’s anything to correct.”

Coran believes in the idea that giving us the answers helps us learn because we’ll know for a fact whether or not we’re working in the right direction. His answer sheet doesn’t show us _how_ to get there, but at least we know to fix something if we write an answer that’s five decimal places and four numbers wrong. He doesn’t give points if we don’t show the work, which should be a problem here. 

Except this _pendejo_ got _every. one. right._

**Me: You don’t even pay attention!**

“Did you miss the part about how I prefer listening over writing?”

No way. No way is this all correct. I’m not perfect, sure, but I get perfect scores when I take my time. Turtles were my favorite animal for a while when I was a kid. When other kids scribbled down answers, I reminded myself that I’d get another A if I just did things my own way. This Jack(ass)-Rabbit zoomed through this like it was second nature. I know I was late getting here, but I doubt I was that late. Was I that late? Maybe I was that late.

**Me: I bet you’re retaking the class and that’s the only reason you know how to do any of this.**

He scoffs. “Sounds like you’re the one that needs to pay more attention.”

I bite my lip and get back to work. His eyes stick to me for five minutes straight, but I keep concentration. Enjoy the show, _puto_. Go ahead. Laugh at Lance. He’s taking his time unlike Mr. Show-Off.

He opens his mouth a few times and leans forward, but doesn’t say anything and sits back in his chair with arms crossed. It takes five attempts before I throw my arms up.

“Nothing, I just…” He points to the third line of my work on the third word problem. “You calculated that number wrong and it’s throwing you off.”

God spurned me in not allowing me to growl because _maldito_ is right again.

**Me: Why don’t we just turn in *your* paper since you’re sooooo smart.**

He shrugs. “Fine with me. We’ll get full points and we won’t have to worry about your inability to do basic multiplication.”

I’m not horrible at math, but it’s not like I’ve done anything serious since high school calculus and that was an absolute joke. Psych is stats-based, not calculus-based. I studied this though. I can do this. Just give me a second. Not everyone can complete an entire physics assignment without having to erase even one number.

**Me: Alright, then I guess we’re done here.**

I shove my things into my bag more roughly than necessary and wince at the dull thump my laptop makes when I miss the laptop sleeve. I don’t stomp out. I don’t almost knock someone over on my way out the door. I don’t trip on the...raised sidewalk thing. Ledge? Whatever. I don’t.

Wait. I didn’t get to drink any of that mocha. Damn. I guess he paid for it so it’s not the worst thing in the world.

The sky borders on darkness and I hasten my steps. We should get rid of daylight savings so I don’t have to walk in the dark before it’s even dinnertime. It’s freezing and overcast all the time and I can’t help envisioning walking down the coast of Varaderos. I could watch the sunset during the summer with my siblings at my side, hollering about who’s paying for the next round of garlic knots.

I push a finger under my sleeve and rub against my band. I push sunny thoughts as hard as I can so maybe when sees them, I’ll get a response for once in my life.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's count how many times Lance says Keith's name in this chapter.


End file.
